


Seamstress, Shepherd, Scout, Spy

by WizardofOzymandias



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bram is an adorable nerd, Correspondence, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Jaws of Hakkon DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lace is a badass, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardofOzymandias/pseuds/WizardofOzymandias
Summary: Once Lace Harding leaves the Frostback Basin, Bram Kenric finds himself feeling heartbroken. His only solace is the letters they write to each other. When the Exalted Council brings Lace to Orlais, Bram decides it's time to confess his feelings. It seems that Lace had the same idea.
Relationships: Lace Harding/Bram Kenric
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14
Collections: 2020 A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	Seamstress, Shepherd, Scout, Spy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viscariafields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/gifts).



> I'm so sorry for taking so long to turn in this treat. I saw your request for Bram/Lace and immediately wanted to write it, and then real life kicked my ass for a few weeks. I wasn't sure whether to submit it this late into the exchange, but I figured better late than never. Thank you for requesting this pairing; it turns out they're super fun to write!

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Bram asked Scout Harding one afternoon, about three weeks after the Inquisition had arrived in the Frostback Basin.

“Why do you ask?” she replied, an amused smile on her face.

“Well,” he said, realizing his cheeks were getting hot. “The first week you were here, you explored about forty square miles of territory and staked out camps, then you helped chop the trees and split the wood for the camps. You also managed to find a bunch of artifacts my team could barely dream of—”

“Those belt buckles, right?” she interrupted with a smirk.

“Absolutely the belt buckles, Lady Harding. You helped me patch my trouser knee when I tore it. You’ve learned how to cook everything in the surrounding area and managed to make it edible. You’ve memorized all the bird calls and taught them to the other Inquisition scouts. You’re a marvel.”

Scout Harding laughed. “Nah, that’s nothing. I grew up in backwoods Ferelden. You have to know how to do a little bit of everything when you’re out in farm country. But, since you asked, I’m really bad at making cheese.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It is if you’re a farmer in Ferelden. Those people _really_ love their cheese. Of course, I technically wasn’t a farmer, but I worked for a few.”

“If you weren’t a farmer, what did you do?”

“Well, I started out as a seamstress—that’s what my mom did, and she was determined I would join her business.”

“So that’s where you get your sewing skills.”

“Yeah, and my awful first name.”

Bram gave her a curious look. “Is it really that terrible? I’ve been dying to ask you what it is.”

Harding grimaced. “It’s Lace. My mom hoped I would grow up to be dainty and delicate. I probably shattered those expectations the first time I got in a fistfight with the neighbor boys. I was five.”

Bram let out a hearty laugh. “I admire your fighting spirit. But was your mother really disappointed? I can’t imagine you disappointing anyone.”

“She was a little disappointed when I started taking too many odd jobs to help her around the shop. I hated being inside all the time. Weird for a dwarf, right? But I love the sky. I was a milkmaid for a few weeks, which is when my cheesemaking disasters happened, then I chopped wood for a lumber mill for a while, and built fence, and harvested potato fields. I was a mapmaker’s apprentice for a couple months, but he evacuated when the mages and templars started fighting. Working with animals was the best. I’ve looked after geese, druffalo, horses, sheep. I was a shepherd when the Inquisition recruited me.”

Bram shook his head. “I wouldn’t know how to do half of those things.”

“You’re a city boy,” she said.

“I won’t deny it, but it sounds like you collect professions like I collect—”

“Buckles?” Lace suggested.

“I was going to say books. Be careful mentioning buckles around me; you might get me rambling again.”

“I don’t mind. I could listen to you all day, with that beautiful accent of yours—” she clapped her hands over her mouth.

Bram felt his face flare as red as hers. “I—I’m flattered, Lady Harding,” he managed to say.

Hands over her face, she said, “You can call me Lace.”

“In my pretty accent?” he teased gently.

She groaned.

Bram felt his heart pounding, but he reminded himself that timidity rarely paid off. “Since we’re sharing compliments, might I mention that you’re incredibly pretty? With your russet hair and honey eyes and your freckles—”

“Stop!” Lace pleaded. “I’ll die of embarrassment!”

“It’s only the truth,” Bram insisted, his voice steady, in spite of his heart feeling ready to gallop out of his chest.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, a wistful look on her face.

Bram faltered. “But?”

“But the Inquisition is leaving after the Jaws of Hakkon are taken care of.”

He had known it all along but hearing her say it still hurt. An idea came to him. “There’s always letters, you know. The post out here is—sparce, but once I get back to Orlais . . .”

“Will you write to me about the buckles you find?”

“You know I will.”

“You’d better,” she said. It sounded like a threat.

* * *

The next weeks were the most exciting time of Bram’s life. The Inquisitor’s battle with the Jaws of Hakkon concluded with routing a fortress and fighting a dragon. More and more revelations were made about Ameridan, including the Inquisitor actually meeting and speaking with her predecessor. Bram’s hand was a constant mess of cramped muscles from frantically jotting down notes. The circles under his eyes were dark as bruises from all the times he woke in the night to capture a stray idea. 

And yet it was all overshadowed by the thought of a pretty freckled face and a pair of golden-hazel eyes. Bram often found himself staring into the distance, forgetting his writing in thoughts of Lace. With all the new discoveries, he was a nervous bundle of inspiration, fingers constantly ink stained and mind permanently lost in history. But all of that was eclipsed whenever he was with her. He sensibly hid his notebooks from prying eyes, not wanting anyone to see all the renditions of the same face scribbled in the margins.

Then came the awful day. The Inquisitor had been gone for almost a week already, and the scouts had started dismantling some of the camps. Bram was nose-deep in a book when Lace startled him—again.

“Hey there, Professor,” she said.

He jumped and let out an embarrassing squeal.

“Got you again,” she said, gloating.

“If I drop this volume in the mud, I shall have to give you a very stern lecture, Lady Harding,” he scolded.

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

He tried awfully hard to distract himself from how much he wanted to kiss that very becoming smirk off her face. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you need me for something?”

“Oh, um. . .” she was suddenly serious.

“What is it?” fears of disaster came to mind.

“I came to say goodbye,” she murmured to the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

“Oh.” Bram wondered if this was how it felt to take a dagger to the chest.

“Yeah, so I wanted to, you know, spook you one last time. For old time’s sake.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I’ll write to you. Like we promised.”

“Like we promised,” he agreed.

She turned to go, but he called after her. “Lace!”

She stopped in her tracks. “My name sounds so nice when you say it.”

“My accent again?”

“Not just that. The way you say it.”

He smiled sadly. “You mean a great deal to me, Lace.”

“I’m glad to have met you, Bram.” She held out her hand and he grasped it firmly, stifling the urge to pull her to his chest and bury his face in her hair.

He didn’t see her after that. The Inquisition scouts finished their packing, mounted their horses, and rode away. Bram felt terribly embarrassed about acting like a lovesick schoolboy, but he cried himself to sleep that night.

* * *

The wilderness seemed lonelier than ever now that Lace was gone, and Bram found himself feeling homesick for the university. The thrill of adventure had worn off in the wake of his heartache.

He moped for days before Collette finally called him out on it. “Professor Kenric,” his assistant said. “Your notes on Ameridan’s altars are due to the university in two days, but it looks like you’ve barely started. What has you so distracted?”

“Oh.” He tried to think of a non-embarrassing excuse for his melancholy, but he came up with nothing.

“Is it about Scout Harding?” Collette asked.

“Well—”

“Your ears are red. Why don’t you write to her, like you said you would?”

Bram quietly cursed his scholar’s pallor, but he took Collette’s advice.

_Dear Lady Harding,_

_I hope you are well. The buckles have been few and far between here, though I am sure your clever eyes would have found far more. I am currently quite nervous about the notes I’ll be submitting to the university. I often worry they’ll strip me of my professorship when they see my rambles. Where has the Inquisition stationed you? I hope it’s not another swamp. Write as soon as you can, please._

_Yours,_

_Bram Kenric_

The letter was far too short, he knew, but he could hardly say what he really meant: _I miss you. I want you here with me again._

The same day he sent the letter, a courier delivered an envelope bearing his own name in a pretty, sloping script. He tore the envelope open far too quickly, slicing one of his fingers, but it was worth it. It was his first letter from Lace.

_Dear Professor Kenric,_

_Greetings from the Western Approach! It’s basically the opposite of the Frostback Basin: blinding heat, Venatori, poison, monsters, the works. Possibly the worst place in the world. I’ve had to shake sand out of my boots at least once an hour. On the upside, we may get to fight another dragon. And speaking of dragons, there’s a man named Frederic of Serault out here, from the University of Orlais. Do you know him? He’s here researching dragons. He reminds me of you—except with dragons instead of buckles. How’s your research? I look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours,_

_Lace Harding_

He felt like dancing around the room. A letter from Lace! Bram could feel himself grinning like a lunatic, but he couldn’t suppress his happiness. He paced the room, letter in hand, heart fluttering.

When his nervous energy died down, he went straight for his desk and began another letter: _My Dearest Lace_. . . He frowned down at the words. Perhaps that was too forward of him. He wadded up the paper and tossed it in the wastebin. _My Dear Lace_ still sounded overly friendly. He couldn’t deny how he felt about Scout Harding, but he had no idea if she cared for him except as her friend with the nice accent. He eventually reverted to his default:

_Dear Lady Harding,_

_It’s a pleasure to hear from you. I hope the Inquisition won’t leave you in such a dreadful location for long. The stories I’ve heard of that desert aren’t pleasant. In regards to your question, I have attended a few lectures by Frederic of Serault. He had some interesting perspectives on the use of dragon bone in metalworking. (Yes, I asked him about buckles.) He’s an odd fellow, but brilliant, which is common enough for scholars. As for myself, I’m working on the notes about Ameridan’s altars. Your insights about that location have been invaluable. I only wish I could ask for your perspective as I work._

_Yours,_

_Bram_

Her next letter was brimming with the same excitement that had enchanted him while she was still stationed in the Basin.

_Dear Bram,_

_We fought the dragon! Or, the Inquisitor’s team did. But I got to watch! There’s something really mesmerizing about dragon fights—it’s like a very careful dance. Advance, retreat, dodge. Attack, retreat, dodge. Almost a waltz. With fire. Or ice, in Hakkon’s case. I think the Inquisition is moving me somewhere else soon. Just keep sending my letters to Skyhold and Leliana will get them to me. Hopefully, the next place will be less sandy. Best of luck with your notes!_

_Yours,_

_Lace Harding_

As usual, he began his reply immediately, and it involved too many crumpled papers and crossed out words before he was happy with it.

_Dear Lace,_

_How exciting! While I know you would’ve liked to help fight the dragon, my heart rests easier knowing you watched from a safe distance. Was Professor Frederick excited about the dragon? I assume it will help him make headway in his research. Truly, the Inquisition has been a godsend to us academics out in the wilds. But what’s this about waltzes, Lady Harding? Is the Inquisition’s prettiest scout fond of dancing? I’m sure you would prove as nimble in the ballroom as the wilderness. I’ve just sent my first set of notes to the university for review and am nervously awaiting their response. In the meantime, Collette and I managed to uncover a rather fascinating ruin that contained three whole buckles! One was a design I haven’t encountered before, although it resembles a similar item found on a suspected Dalish quiver strap from 1:37 Divine. Of course, much of this is conjecture, since the Chantry has been so adamant about erasing the elves from their history. I can only imagine what a stir my own research will cause. I won’t bore you with further details, since you don’t have the pleasure of listening to my accent. We also found some very lovely flowers at the ruin. I pressed a few of them and am enclosing them here._

_Yours,_

_Bram_

It was two agonizing months before he heard from Lace again. This time, the envelope was unusually heavy. There seemed to be something inside. Whatever it was landed with a metallic _plink_ on his desk as he tore open the envelope with the fervency of a drowning man taking in air.

_Dear Bram,_

_From one desert into another. The Inquisition sent me to the Hissing Wastes. Really, it’s not as bad as it sounds. But it’s more sand, and. . .not much else. This time of year, it barely sees the sun, which means it’s a desert that’s freezing. There’s a few brontos and some varghests with bad attitudes, but mostly it’s just empty sand dunes. Thank you for the flowers; they remind me of the wildflowers back home in Ferelden. It’s been a while since I saw any flowers. The only thing that seems to grow well here is this spiky stuff called Vandal Aria. There are some really interesting dwarven ruins, though. I wish you were here to look at them—we’d probably lose you for days. I found something that will probably interest you in one of them. You’ll have to tell me all about it in your next letter. Write to me soon, please. It’s really boring out here._

_Yours,_

_Lace_

Bram let out a delighted laugh as he fished the object out of the envelope: a buckle, clearly of dwarven craftsmanship predating the Ancient Age. Maker bless Lace Harding.

* * *

Time passed. Far off in Ferelden, the Inquisitor defeated Corypheus and the shadow of doom passed from over Thedas. Bram learned the news from a frantically scrawled note from Lace. The Inquisition continued its work and Lace remained vital to their efforts. Months went by and many more letters were exchanged, each leaving Bram with the wrenching wish he could say what he really thought: _I love you. Please stay safe. I wish I could see your face again._

More than a year after their first meeting, he found himself including a note at the bottom of his latest letter: _I’m returning to the University of Orlais now. Please write to me there._

Readjusting to life in Orlais was a bit of a shock. For one thing, the university was far too quiet. He had grown used to the constant hum of insects and the screeches of birds out in the Basin. No longer did he have to worry about his dig sites flooding or his notes being eaten by bogfishers. The food was an adjustment, as well. He had grown used to things like snoufleur jerky, gurgut stew, and boiled elfroot. Now he was back in the world of high tea and frilly cakes, of roast halla imported from the Dales and coffee from Antiva. The coffee was a welcome change, at least. He had missed it out in the Basin once his supply ran out.

Life at the university was far from the Grand Game played in the Orlesian court, but scholars had their own private set of machinations and deceit that created the hierarchy in their realm. Returning to that world was far more overwhelming now than the transition from Starkhaven to Orlais had been. Bram often found himself floundering, feeling more like a country bumpkin than ever.

Through it all, he relied heavily on the comfort of Lace’s cheerful letters, which were frequently filled with admonitions to remember to eat and to make sure to get enough sleep. He tried his best, but it was difficult with his public lecture coming up. The university had arranged for him to present his findings on Ameridan and Bram was quietly panicking.

When the day finally arrived, Collette had to scold him out to the podium: “Your research needs this publicity. And my name is on your book; if it fails, I’ll lose my place in the university. Go!”

The entire lecture passed like a fever dream. Somehow, he seemed to hear himself saying sensible things and replying to questions with well-reasoned responses. Once the ordeal was over, the audience responded with enthusiastic applause. Bram left the podium, feeling a little stunned. Which was when a familiar shape caught his eye.

A small group of students had clustered around him, notes in hand, but Bram politely excused himself. A glint of armor had attracted his attention and he thought he had glimpsed the same shade of auburn hair that had haunted his dreams for almost a year.

He pushed through the crowd, and there she stood.

“Lace!” he cried, exhilaration setting in.

“Hi, Professor!” she said.

“You came to my lecture?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She smiled wryly, then confessed, “But I didn’t tell you, because I almost did miss it.”

“I’m so happy to see you,” he breathed. “How is the Inquisition?”

She was quiet for a too-long moment.

“Lace?”

“Leliana—I mean Divine Victoria—has called for an Exalted Council. None of us outside the inner circle are sure what that means for the Inquisition, but it seems bad. And the Inquisitor. . .I think she’s dying.”

Bram could hear all of Lace’s fear and heartbreak for her friend in those words. “Is there hope?” he asked.

“A little,” she said quietly, “but I’m so scared.”

“Would you like to go somewhere—to talk about it? Have you eaten? I could buy you dinner.”

She faltered. “I can’t. I had to ask Charter to cover my afternoon duties, and I’m supposed to report to Leliana in just a few minutes. I could barely steal enough time to get here.”

“It means the world to me that you came to my lecture, Lace. Just seeing you is better than any accolades the university could give me.”

“You were wonderful,” she said. “You deserve all the recognition you get from your book. And—write to me again soon.”

“Of course I will,” he assured her. “And Lace—”

She glanced at the angle of the sun. “Sweet Maker, I’m late! I’m sorry, Bram, I have to go!” she darted off into the crowd before he could say another word.

“—I love you,” he murmured, watching her go.

* * *

Bram was met with many accolades when he returned to the crowd from the university. He merely nodded and mechanically thanked each of them in turn. His mind was elsewhere, far away, wherever Lace had gone.

Bram returned to his room at the university and collapsed on his bed. His mind and body were exhausted. He lay awake, staring at the flickering firelight on his ceiling. By the time the fire had burned itself out, he was still awake, heart aching.

He rose and lit a lamp, then reached for his paper and pen.

 _My Dearest Lace,_ he wrote. This time there would be no crossing it out.

_My Lady Harding, I can no longer hide my feelings for you. When I saw your face here in Val Royeaux, I knew you had claimed the foremost place in my heart. I can only hope these sentiments are not repugnant to you. I must confess that I have loved you since your first days in the Basin, and every day of our separation has weighed heavily on my heart. Please, if you harbor any similar feelings for me, write to me at once. If not, tell me, so that I may stifle this hope forever. The dearest desire of my heart is to make you my wife, dear Lace. Please write to me soon. I can only bear the silence for so long._

_I remain faithfully yours,_

_Bram_

He stared at the letter for a long moment. His first instinct was to burn it. He sounded too stiff and formal. His syntax had grown too used to the formality of academic writing, and he had no knack for poetry. Finding the right words for his feelings might prove impossible. His clumsy attempt would have to do. But once the letter was posted? There would be the wait, the suspense. Perhaps she would reject him, but at least that would bring an end to this ceaseless wondering. Worse than that was the fear that she might never write to him again—that he might never know if the end of their correspondence came because she could not love him, or because some darker fate befell her.

Better to tear up the letter than let that fear haunt his dreams. He took hold of it, then faltered again. “Come on, Bram,” he scolded himself. “Make up your mind.”

At last, he folded the letter and sealed it, placing it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll decide in the morning,” he muttered.

He went back to bed, exhaustion finally claiming him.

The morning brought the usual distractions: a hurried breakfast gobbled while reviewing his lecture notes, three morning classes and a meeting with other faculty, then another meeting with Collette to review her contributions to their book.

Through it all, the letter rode in his pocket, forgotten in his rush of activity. He remembered its presence halfway through an afternoon class.

“This was in the time of Emperor Drakon,” he was saying, when he reached into his pocket to retrieve a sliver of chalk and felt the crisp, folded paper. He fumbled over his words and the listening students looked at him curiously. “As—as I was saying,” he began again, his face flaring a brilliant scarlet. He wanted to melt through the floor.

Somehow he managed the rest of the lecture, then he asked Collette to cancel his last class, pleading a headache. It was only half a lie. Returning to his room, Bram retrieved the letter and tossed it on his desk. He pulled off his professor’s cap and flung it onto a chair, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“The letter, Bram,” he muttered. “What about the letter? If I send it, she might say no. Or never reply. Either of those would hurt. If I don’t send it. . .I don’t know. Is keeping it doing me any good?”

He groaned.

“Just send the damned thing, Kenric,” he told himself.

He dispatched the letter with a courier that evening and lay awake panicking most of the night.

The next day found him tongue-tied and cranky for most of the morning, downing cups of coffee between lectures like his life depended on it. Collette had to remind him the crates from the printer would be arriving that afternoon. After all the time they had spent working, the book was finally done.

The sight of his name in print gave Bram an odd, disorienting feeling, as if reality had suddenly come unmoored. Collette, on the other hand, was exuberant. She grabbed a copy of the book and flipped to the title page. She pointed to her name, there beside his. “I can’t believe it! They actually published an elf!”

“Congratulations, Colette. You more than earned your way into my book. Why, it wouldn’t even be finished if it weren’t for you!”

She was already flipping through the volume, poring over her transcription of _The Hunt of the Fell Wolf_. “They even included the original elvhen!” she cried, holding up the book. “Look, it’s a side-by-side translation!”

Bram grinned, pleased to see that his assistant’s diligent work had received such a fitting reward.

“Are you ready for the signing tomorrow?” Colette asked him.

“Oh, damn,” he muttered, then—glancing at Colette—apologized.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Would your current state of distraction have anything to do with the presence of a certain Inquisition scout at your lecture?”

He had no hope of denying it. “You know it does.”

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“I’m not sure where to find her in the city. But I wrote her a letter.”

Colette’s eyebrows went up. “Did you send it?”

“Yes.” He gave her a warning look, trying his best to conceal a smile. “Can we acknowledge that you’re prying way too far into my personal life?”

“I spent almost three months at the research station with the two of you. Your puppy dog eyes were too obvious to be missed. I’m invested in this whether you like it or not.”

“Hey, hold on—” Bram tried to protest. He drew the line at puppy dog eyes.

Colette simply gave him the glare she reserved for noisy students. It proved just as effective at silencing him.

“I wish the two of you every happiness.”

“But nothing’s certain yet,” he said.

“I never said the puppy dog eyes were all on your side.”

He sat staring at nothing in particular, dumbfounded. Was there really that much hope? Colette simply reopened her copy of the book and began reading again.

* * *

Bram had always considered book signings to be silly affairs. He often pitied his poor colleagues who sat awkwardly waiting behind unsold stacks of their work, hoping someone would ask them an intelligent question. Now he was the poor sucker stuck at just such a table. At least there were a surprising number of people who showed up for the occasion. Plenty of his students were there, along with a handful of faculty.

So many people wound their way through the queue to congratulate him or request his signature that all the faces began to blur together in his memory. That was, until a pair of freckled hands with familiar archer’s callouses set a copy of his book in front of him, and said, “Will you sign this for me, Professor?”

He glanced up into the lovely hazel eyes of Lace Harding.

“I—I. . .it’s good to see you,” he stammered. He tried his best to control his trembling hand as he signed her copy of his book. “There’s so much I want to ask you,” he told her. “But I’m a little trapped.”

“That’s alright. I’m happy to wait for you. Colette promised to show me the campus.”

Bram shot a suspicious glance at his assistant, wondering if this was her doing.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Lace said.

“Of course! Anything you want to talk about.” His mind desperately set about scrutinizing everything about that sentence: Lace’s expression, her tone, the words themselves, hoping for some hint of what was to come.

“I’ll see you around!” she said, turning to join Colette.

“I’ll take that as a promise, Lady Harding,” he called after her, his heart and brain still performing somersaults.

When the signing was finally over, he found Lace waiting for him, just as she said she would be. “Lady Harding,” he said.

“Professor Kenric.” Staring down at the ground, she said, “I’m sorry I ran off like that the other day.”

“Did you get into trouble with the Divine?”

She shook her head. “I made it just in time.”

“Then no harm done after all.” He desperately wanted to broach the subject of what she had wanted to tell him, but he also dreaded it. Surely it would be his answer. “Would you like to go somewhere we can talk?” he asked her.

“Please. Someplace _private_.”

Her emphasis on that word had him dithering for several minutes over his options. Finally, he led the way to his faculty office. Thankfully, with the publication of his book, the university had moved him out of the equivalent of a broom closet into something that could be justifiably called a room. It was still smaller than some of the private study rooms in the library, but there were two whole chairs inside, as well as a much-coveted fireplace.

Once they were settled, Lace seemed reluctant to take up the conversation.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” Bram asked, aware that his nerves were showing, but unable to stop himself.

“Some coffee would be great,” Lace admitted.

Bram was thankful for the momentary distraction, although he had to be very careful about pouring the hot liquid while his hands were shaking. He handed her a cup, then settled behind his desk with his own steaming mug.

Lace sat quietly, sipping her coffee.

“What came of the Exalted Council?” Bram asked finally.

The question seemed to startle her out of deep thoughts. “It was awful,” she said. “First there was a dead qunari, then we found out there were enemy spies in the Inquisition. And Solas—you remember the elf apostate? He turned out to be. . .either an ancient god or an enemy operative, or both. We’re still not entirely sure. Either way, he’s going to be a problem. He did something to the Inquisitor, and the Anchor is gone, but she lost that part of her arm. Somehow, she pulled through and finished her testimony that day. But the Inquisition is disbanded.”

Bram almost choked on his coffee. “Disbanded? But what does that mean for you?” For a brief, terrible moment, he dared to hope Lace was free.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She glanced around them, looking a little nervous, then she leaned across the desk. “I have a new job.”

“Another for the collection?” he teased.

She smiled and he almost forgot how to breathe. “I can’t help myself,” she joked. “You know how collectors are.”

“I do, indeed. But what’s this new job of yours?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m a spy now.”

He tried his best not to let his surprise show. “I thought you said the Inquisition was disbanded.”

“We are. But Leliana’s spy network is still operating. We’re needed now more than ever because we’re the only ones who know about Solas.”

“Is he really so dangerous?”

“He’s trying to destroy the world.”

Bram felt the familiar ache of disappointment. “You’re a good woman, Lace. Not many people would be willing to sign up to save the world twice.”

She gave a lopsided smile. “The work never ends.” She seemed to recall something then. “I got a letter from you this morning.”

Bram felt a sudden jolt of panic. Fumbling to stay composed, he forced a smile and said, “Oh, yes, I couldn’t help writing to you after I saw you at my lecture.”

“I haven’t opened it yet.”

Relief mixed with disappointment. At least she didn’t know the contents of the letter. But that also meant that the letter wasn’t something she had intended to discuss with him.

“That’s fine, then,” he said.

She took a deep breath, then her words tumbled out in a rush: “There’s something I want to say, before anything else crazy happens to me. Your letters have been—they’ve been wonderful, and, um, I’m not sure how you’ll take this—” she faltered, then stood and walked to the mantle, staring at the crackling logs.

Bram couldn’t stand her distress. He crossed the room and stood beside her. “What is it, Lace?” he said gently. “I’m willing to hear whatever you want to say.”

He was shocked to see tears standing in her eyes. “It’s just—you’re just—so _wonderful_ to me, Bram, and—”

His mind teetered between joy and despair, wishing she would give him some indication of which side he should encourage. She began to cry quietly, and he gave her his handkerchief.

Finally, she said, “This is ridiculous. I never cry.”

“You’ve been through a lot in the past few days,” he reminded her. “There’s no harm in crying, Lady Harding.”

She smiled as she wiped her face with his handkerchief. When her face was reasonably dry again, she gave him a look of quiet determination. “There’s something I want to tell you, but I’ll need you to lean down.”

He obeyed without question, bracing himself for the lovely sensation of Lace whispering in his ear. Instead, she surprised him by wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips.

Bram froze with shock, for a moment unable to believe that Lace Harding was kissing him. Then he leaned in, cupping her neck with one hand, and placing the other in her soft auburn hair.

When they separated, Bram took a moment to steady his breathing, then murmured, “You certainly know how to make a man speechless, Lady Harding.”

Lace coughed, embarrassed. “I—that’s not at all like me,” she began, “I—”

“Don’t apologize,” he told her. “I enjoyed that immensely.”

“You did?”

“You really haven’t read my letter.”

“Should I have?”

“I think you’ll find it to be a very stuffy, poorly worded confession of love for you.”

She stared at him in wonder.

“As well as a proposal of marriage.”

“I—I—”

“I love you, Lace. I know your life is—complicated, to say the least. But if you could find it in your heart to love a stodgy, boring professor who walks into walls while reading books about early Chantry history—” words failed him.

“Of course I love you,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Your adorable smile and your accent and your history obsession, you’re the most wonderful person I know. You sent me flowers _in the desert_. How could I not fall for you? But my life is worse than complicated. Leliana’s sending me to Tevinter.”

“Tevinter? Hmm. That could be workable.” Bram’s mind was racing, still riding the high of Lace’s kiss. “There are plenty of ancient Chantry sites that remain unexplored out there. I’m sure it would be a matter of me choosing one and requesting funding if I wanted to be stationed out there.”

“But you just got back to the university. Don’t you want to stay?”

“What can I say? My research has given me a taste for adventure. But I won’t act without word from you, Lace. Will you let me follow you into the wilderness, Lady Harding?”

“It will be dangerous.”

“It wouldn’t be an adventure without danger, my dear.”

“There are rumors the qunari are starting another war.”

“There’s always war.”

“And with Solas threatening the whole world—”

“The danger will be no less if we’re separated. Will you have me, Lace? If you like, I'll be your husband—or your lover, or whatever you wish.”

She smiled up at him. “I would like to be your wife.”

His heart caught fire. “Then it’s settled, Lady Harding. Name the day.”

* * *

The wedding was in three days, just before Lace left for Tevinter. Bram was a little intimidated to see that not only the majority of the Inquisition, but also Divine Victoria, had turned up for the ceremony. On his own front, Colette had shown up, all smug at seeing her point proven. But he forgot everything when Lace arrived.

He wrote to his parents in Starkhaven about the occasion, knowing Lord and Lady Kenric would be charmed by Lace.

When the time came, he presented his bride with a ring set with a bright blue aquamarine. He relished the surprise on her pretty, freckled face.

“How did you know my favorite color was blue?”

“You told me once that you love the sky.”

She thought for a minute, then said, “I did, didn’t I? And you remembered that?”

“You were very memorable, my love. But I have another gift for you.” He drew her into an alcove where an easel stood.

Lace gasped at the beautiful painting it held. “This is Ferelden!”

He coughed a little, embarrassed to confess. “I commissioned an artist a few months ago. I sent him to paint the Fereldan countryside. I intended to gift you the results the next time I saw you. I chose the stone in your ring to match the color of the sky in the painting.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you, Lady Harding.”

The few days before Lace went to Tevinter were not enough time. But all of it was bliss. He had missed his love’s quick mind and sharp tongue more than he realized.

Once she was gone, he poured all of his energy into writing up a research proposal. The university board was surprised that he wanted to go back into the field so quickly, but they approved his request.

Within three months, Bram was on his way to Tevinter, happy to know his clever wife was waiting for him there. He took comfort in knowing that whatever profession Lace took on next and wherever her work might lead her, she was happy for him to follow. 


End file.
